


When Angels Visit Us

by FaramirsBlessing



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Rurouni Kenshin
Genre: Aziraphale and Crowley in Japan, Bad at Fitting In, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Emotional Aziraphale, Emotional Crowley (Good Omens), Everyone goes through the full range of emotions in this, Gen, Japanese Culture, Kenshin is stupid, M/M, Sad Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sad Crowley (Good Omens), Wearing Terrible Clothes, Young Kenshin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 06:30:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20110681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaramirsBlessing/pseuds/FaramirsBlessing
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley visit Japan during the Meiji Revolution to keep an eye on a young red-headed swordsman.





	When Angels Visit Us

**Author's Note:**

> Lol no one is gonna read this except me! 
> 
> These are my favorite characters so I obviously had to write them together. Also, I'm such a bitch for historical Aziraphale and Crowley, thank you very much. 
> 
> I use a lot of Japanese terms for clothing in the beginning of this but if you just look up Meiji-era clothing you'll get the general idea of what they're all wearing. The Shimazu crest (mon) is a cross in a circle. 
> 
> Aziraphale's and Crowley's Japanese names: Tenshi means Angel (lol) and Karasu means crow (because CROWley)

Aziraphale sat on top of a hill outside Kyoto, watching with vague discomfort as a boy with blood-red hair stalked through the streets of the city, silently shadowing a group of samurai. His right hand was twitching on the hilt of his katana, his left trailing along the walls of small shops and homes. He was as silent as death. And Aziraphale would know. Death was not a very pleasant fellow and he had a habit of popping up without warning; it was quite startling, really, and the angel didn’t appreciate it much.

Aziraphale sighed and moved his gaze to the ocean, which sparkled faintly under the half moon. A few boats bobbed out on the water, reminding the angel of that silly game with the apples that the Romans and Celtics had invented. Aziraphale had thought the entire thing was rather humorous, while Crowley, being as he was, thought it was ridiculous.

“What are you doing here, angel?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cried in delight, clapping his hands and getting to his feet. He turned to find the demon standing behind him and blinked a few times, taken aback. “Wh-What are you wearing?!” he stammered.

Crowley blinked in turn and looked down at his clothes, brow furrowed. He was wearing pure black, as per usual, kimono and tabi darker than midnight, but his kamishimo was what made him stand out starkly against the traditional Japanese inhabitants of the area. It was a dark, blood red, the shoulders almost ridiculously wide, and the mon on the shoulders and back were golden snakes swallowing their own tails. Aziraphale knew for a fact that this was no family crest of any family currently in Japan. He threw Crowley an unimpressed look.

“Really, my dear?”

“What, you don’t like it?” Crowley asked, spreading his arms wide. He turned a bit, red hakama twirling around his ankles, smiling crookedly at Aziraphale. The angel blushed. 

“I didn’t say that,” he said, his eyes flicking away from his friend. “It’s just. . . a bit _much_, isn’t it?”

Crowley snorted in disbelief.

“A bit much? Angel, have you seen yourself? You’re dressed like you’re going to the imperial court!”

“What!” Aziraphale squeaked in outrage. “I am not!” 

“Yes, you are!” Crowley laughed. “You’re wearing those ridiculous long pants, what are they called—”

“Nagabakama, Crowley, and they’re very nice—”

“And your mon are practically _glowing, _could you be more obvious, angel?”

Aziraphale looked down at his chest, seeing that yes, his mon, the encircled cross of the Shimazu clan, was shining with angelic grace. With an annoyed noise, the angel swiped his hand across the mon and it quickly ceased glowing. He glared at Crowley.

“What are you doing here, Crowley?” he asked. “I don’t remember making an arrangement with you for this period.”

Crowley raised a finger and pointed down the hill.

“I’m here to watch him,” he answered.

Aziraphale followed his finger, which, he saw with surprise, was fixed on the young red-headed man he had been watching earlier.

“Ah,” he said. “I’ve been watching him too.”

Crowley turned to him, shocked.

“Have you?” he asked. “Hmm. . . Do you have orders?”

Aziraphale shrugged.

“Yes, I am to make sure nothing happens to him. He has a large part in this revolution. Heaven wants the resistance to win." 

Crowley hummed. 

“Interesting,” he murmured.

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley. 

“Why are you watching him?” he asked.

“He’s killed a lot of people,” the demon answered flatly. “I want to see how many more he’ll kill before he’s had enough.”

The cold, hard tone of Crowley’s voice unsettled Aziraphale. He fidgeted, wringing his hands.

“So. . . you don’t have orders to be here?”

“No,” Crowley answered.

The two fell silent for a while, standing next to each other as they watched the boy follow the samurai throughout the streets of Kyoto, obviously waiting for an opportunity to strike. As time drew on, both angel and demon grew tense, Crowley’s serpentine pupils thinning to slits and Aziraphale’s invisible wings twitching. The angel opened his mouth to speak when the boy suddenly jumped out from behind an empty restaurant, accosted the samurai, and had cut them all down within thirty seconds. The boy dropped a letter on top of one of the bodies before running off, leaving no hint that he had ever been present behind.

Aziraphale gasped and covered his mouth with a shaky hand as Crowley whistled.

“Damn,” Crowley said in a breath. “Never seen anyone kill that fast before. I’m honestly kind of impressed.”

“Oh my. . .” Aziraphale’s voice trembled and Crowley looked at him through his dark glasses, grateful that they hid his concern.

“Angel?” he asked. “You all right?”

“Are you sure he’s not a demon?” the angel murmured, blue eyes huge and terrified and all-too-sad. Crowley shook his head.

“Nope,” he said. “Not a demon. Just a human kid.” 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said. “How did he get so good at that? It’s frightening.”

Crowley shrugged. 

“Practice,” he said. His voice became dark and flat and sharp. “Too much practice.”

Aziraphale said nothing.

************************************************

Kenshin could feel something watching him. Two somethings, specifically. They weren’t human or animal either, which disconcerted him. The young soldier knew what human and animal gazes felt like — like he was being hunted, stalked, threatened — but these eyes felt different. They didn’t seem to want to hurt him. They just watched him from afar with curiosity, one of them gentle and sad, the other wary and oddly protective. 

A few weeks after Kenshin had started feeling the presence of these watchful eyes, he heard his comrades of the Ishin Shishi discussing some foreigners at breakfast. He froze, fish halfway to his lips.

“They’re really very strange,” Matsu said loudly. “I’ve never seen anyone like them before.”

“What d’you mean?” Tetsu asked, stuffing rice in his mouth. Kenshin made a face at his manners.

“Well, one of them wears just black and red all the time. And his family crest is a snake _eating itself._” He lowered his voice as he said this last part. “I don’t know any family in all of Japan with that crest, do you?”

“A snake?” one of the older members asked with a frown. “No, there’s not a family with that crest.”

Matsu nodded furiously.

“The other has white hair! And wears the Shimazu crest!”

The others in the room frowned at him. 

“So?” someone asked. 

“That just sounds like a Shimazu elder,” someone else snorted, but Matsu waved his hands.

“No, no, no, I mean like yellow white! Like the Europeans! And he wears nagabakama on the streets!”

“No way!”

“That’s impossible!”

“Stop pulling our legs, Matsu-kun, you’re being ridiculous.”

“No, no, I’m telling the truth!” Matsu cried, dismayed that no one seemed to believe him. In a last desperate attempt at validation, he turned to Kenshin.

“Himura-san!” he yelled. “You believe me, right?" 

Kenshin said nothing and everyone laughed.

“You thought Himura would agree with you?” Tetsu cackled, rice falling out of his mouth.

“That boy doesn’t say a word unless he needs to!”

“Why would our greatest assassin believe such silly stories?”

Kenshin raised his fish to his lips and swallowed, silently considering Matsu’s words and forming a plan to find these two strange men. He felt, no, he _knew_, that those two were the ones who had been watching him and he needed to know why.

*************************************************

It was late at night and the moon had hidden herself behind thick grey clouds, as if to avoid being a witness to Crowley’s and Aziraphale’s clandestine meeting on the hilltop outside of Kyoto. They were drinking their fill of the finest sake in Japan (more than their fill, perhaps) and Aziraphale was snacking on delicacies such as manju, dango, and amanatto.

Aziraphale took a bite of dango and moaned. 

“These are absolutely scrumptious!” he cried. He held out the stick with the remaining two dango, offering it to Crowley. “Would you like some, my dear?”

Crowley shook his head and poured another cup of sake. 

“No,” he said. He sighed. “We have company.” 

Aziraphale paused and laid aside the dango. He got to his feet with a smile, while Crowley stayed where he was, lounging in the grass. 

“Dear boy,” Aziraphale called, voice far louder than any human’s could possibly be, “you can come out of hiding. We know you’re here.”

There were a few moments of silence before the red-headed boy crept out of the cover of trees nearby, katana drawn in his right hand, his left hand hovering on his wakizashi.

“Now, now, child, there’s no need for that,” Aziraphale said with a disarming smile. “We shan’t hurt you.”

“You’ve been watching me,” the boy accused, grip tightening on his katana. 

“And you’ve been killing people,” Crowley said lazily from where he was laying on the grass, taking another sip of his sake. Aziraphale glared at Crowley.

“Really?” he asked.

Crowley just shrugged.

“Why are you watching me?” the boy demanded. “Who are you working for? The Shogunate?”

“Working for?” Aziraphale frowned, cocking his head to the side. “Why, dear boy, we don’t work for anyone. Well, any of you humans anyway.”

A look of confusion flitted across the boy’s face and Aziraphale smiled again. 

“Why don’t we talk?” he offered. “We have food and drink.” 

The boy eyed Aziraphale suspiciously.

“I don’t know you,” he said.

“Oh! Yes of course! How silly of me!” Aziraphale clapped his hands together and bowed. The boy raised his eyebrows and took a step back, confused. Crowley laughed.

“Angel,” he said, “that’s the Chinese greeting from ages ago.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale blushed and awkwardly scratched his cheek. “Oh dear. I get so confused with all these formalities. What’s this country’s bow, my dear?” 

Crowley got to his feet and bowed at the boy, keeping his hands at his side. Aziraphale’s face lit up and he repeated Crowley’s bow.

“Hello, dear boy, my name is Aziraphale,” he said with a smile as he raised his head. “This is Crowley.”

The red-headed boy frowned deeply.

“A. . zir. .?” 

“Oh! Yes, Aziraphale is so hard in this language, isn’t it? You can call me Tenshi, dear boy!”

“Tenshi. . .?”

“Yes, that’s right!”

The boy’s eyes flitted to Crowley, who smirked.

“You can call me Karasu,” he said.

“Tenshi-sama, Karasu-sama.” The boy bowed, far deeper and more respectful than both Aziraphale and Crowley had been expecting. Crowley grinned, clearly pleased, but Aziraphale seemed taken aback.

“-Sama, hmm?” Crowley hummed. “I like it.”

“Well, um,” Aziraphale stammered, “-sama is so formal, child, you needn’t—”

“Don’t call me that,” the boy interrupted sharply, violet eyes flashing gold for a moment. Aziraphale took a step back, but Crowley grinned.

“Ooh, feisty, are we?”

The boy glared at him. Aziraphale quickly regained control of himself and cleared his throat.

“Don’t call you what, dear boy?”

“Boy. Child. I am not those things.”

Crowley snorted before Aziraphale had the chance to speak.

“Of course you are. You are nothing but a sapling. Young and ignorant and eager to prove yourself in the world.” He sneered. “_Child.” _

The boy stiffened and Aziraphale, sensing rising tension between the two, and, with the katana still drawn, intervened hastily before any unpleasantness occurred.

“What would you like to be called then?” he asked the boy, forcing a smile over his face.

The boy did not look at him as he spoke.

“My name is Himura Kenshin,” he said. “You can call me Himura or Kenshin.” 

“No way are we calling you Himura,” Crowley said, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re too young to be addressed so formally.”

Kenshin glared at Crowley, displeased, but Aziraphale frowned, for the first time noticing how very young this boy looked. He was hardly over five feet tall, probably weighed little over one hundred pounds, and had a face that belonged to a child that had just begun puberty.

“Kenshin-san,” Aziraphale said, “how old are you?” 

“Fourteen,” Kenshin answered. 

Aziraphale sucked in a sharp breath and Crowley’s eyes widened under his darkened glasses.

“Younger than I thought,” Crowley whispered. He scratched the skin in front of his ear awkwardly, where a serpentine tattoo curled just beneath his hairline. His eyes flicked to Aziraphale. “Kinda sad.” 

Aziraphale nodded, and there were tears in his eyes. Kenshin blinked in surprise.

“Why are you crying?” he asked. He quickly sheathed his katana, a look of discomfort and true worry on his young face. “What’s wrong, Tenshi-sama?”

“You’re so young, dear bo — Kenshin-san,” Aziraphale said. “It saddens me.” 

A look that Aziraphale didn’t have time to place dashed across the boy’s face before it settled back into its cold mask.

“You don’t need to be sad for me,” he said. “I made this decision.”

“Yes, but your family is dead, and you escaped from slavery and now you left your master and it’s all just so sad!” Aziraphale cried, distraught, and began to wring his hands anxiously.

Kenshin went white and stepped back a few feet, his heart beating fast.

“H-How do you know all that?” he asked. “All that stuff about me?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked awkward, realizing he had spilled secrets he shouldn’t have. “I just. . . know.”

“Have you spoken to Shishou?” Kenshin demanded.

Before Aziraphale could speak, Crowley interrupted, the lie rolling off his tongue with ease.

“Of course, we did, Kenshin-san,” he said, waving a hand, “how else would we know this?” 

“Shishou. . . Shishou doesn’t talk to members of the imperial court. . .” Kenshin murmured, eyeing Aziraphale suspiciously. Aziraphale fidgeted, remembering how Crowley had commented on his apparently extremely formal attire.

“Ah, yes, about that, I’m not really a member of the court,” he said. “I just dress like this to fit in.”

Kenshin frowned in confusion.

“To fit in. . .” he said flatly.

“Yes, but I suppose I stand out, don’t I?”

“I told you so, angel!” Crowley cried.

“You’re not any better,” Kenshin said, tucking his hands in the sleeves of his kimono. “Black and red is very obvious on the streets. And everyone knows that a snake is not a family crest of any family in Japan. Also, what’s with the dark glasses?” He looked between Aziraphale and Crowley. “Everyone is talking about you two, you know.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said. “We didn’t do such a good job blending in this time, I’m afraid.”

“It always gets messy during revolutions,” Crowley said. “Remember the nonsense you pulled in France?”

Aziraphale made a face.

“_Must _you bring that up every time we see each other?”

“Yes, angel, I absolutely must.”

“Crowley—!” 

“You bicker like an old married couple,” Kenshin blurted before he could stop himself. Both men stopped talking and turned to look at him, Aziraphale’s mouth hanging open, and Crowley’s face a shade of red that Kenshin was sure that humans couldn’t achieve. He clapped a hand over his mouth.

“I’m sorry!” he cried, falling into a bow. “I’m sorry! I meant no offense!”

There was a tense moment of silence before Aziraphale began to laugh while Crowley muttered something and wandered off, still bright red. When Kenshin dared to look up, Aziraphale was practically beaming his smile was so bright, while Crowley had wandered off to the trees, a stick of dango in his mouth.

“Kenshin-san, you truly have a talent for comedy!” Aziraphale said and he reached forward to grab Kenshin’s hand. Even with the speed of the Hiten Mitsurugi, Kenshin was unable to keep his hand from Aziraphale’s and gasped when the warm, slightly chubby fingers curled around his own.

“It’s all right,” the man reassured, patting their entwined hands with his other hand, “you’re all right, Kenshin-san.”

He pulled Kenshin to the edge of the hill and stood next to him as they looked over Kyoto, still holding his hand. He waited for the boy to speak, patient and quiet, exuding warm and reassuring grace around the boy, who spilled frightened, uneasy energy. Not that he feared Aziraphale or Crowley; fear and unease were just mainstays of his personality these days.

Finally, he spoke.

“Why are you following me?” he asked.

“This revolution is important,” Aziraphale answered without looking at Kenshin. “I was asked to keep an eye on its progress, and you have a large role in its outcome.” He turned to Kenshin with a sad, soft smile that made the boy extremely uncomfortable. “You have a kind heart, Kenshin-san, and I’m sorry to see you suffering like this.”

Kenshin stiffened.

“Who said I was suffering?” he demanded.

Aziraphale squeezed his hand.

“No one,” he answered. “It’s obvious. You remind me of someone else I knew, long ago.” His gaze grew wistful and faraway, his smile fading a bit. “He was from this country as well.” 

Kenshin cocked his head to the side in silent question but said nothing. He didn’t jump when Crowley appeared behind him — he was trained to know when silent strangers appeared, after all — but was shocked when he spoke.

“You mean Kūkai?” he asked, dango stick hanging between his teeth. “He was a decent fellow, if I remember right. I only met him once.” He waved a bony hand in dismissal. “Never one for Buddhists.”

Aziraphale threw him a withering glare.

“Odaishisama was a very good man,” he said with a firm nod. “Strict and set in his ways, but very kind. He was quite a believer in his faith as well, which I admired.”

Crowley hummed.

“Not a Christian though,” he said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the red-headed swords-boy flinch but chose to ignore him. “Surprised your lot decided to send you here.”

“They didn’t,” Aziraphale sniffed. “I came myself. I wanted to see what other religions believed.”

“Oh?” Crowley asked, eyebrows raised.

“Hmm.”

“And what did you think?”

“They are very good,” Aziraphale answered with a smile. He cast his eyes up at the full moon, who had come out from behind the clouds, smiling wider. “Everyone’s ideas of God, or gods, or a Greater Being are very similar at their core; they all speak of love, peace, and sacrifice.” He turned to Kenshin and Crowley, still smiling. “I’m quite fond of Buddhism and its focus on overcoming suffering.” At the last words, his gaze moved to Kenshin. “What do you think, Kenshin-san?”

Kenshin stiffened under the bright blue eyes, forcing himself to look at the ground.

“I don’t believe in God or Buddha,” he said in a whisper. “There is too much hatred in the world for those beliefs.”

Crowley barked a short, harsh laugh at that and rounded on Kenshin like a predator, thin lips pulled up in a sneer.

“So, what do you believe in, then?” he hissed. “Your sword? Blood and bone? Fire that swallows your home whole? Disease that wipes out your family, leaving you alone?”

Kenshin paled and wrenched his hand from Aziraphale’s, ignoring the pain that it caused. He jumped away from the pair — one clad in light, the other in dark — his violet eyes huge.

“Crowley, really!” Aziraphale cried, throwing his hands in the air. “Must you drudge up unpleasant memories like that?”

Crowley turned his sneer to Aziraphale.

“Unpleasant memories are the only ones I can dredge up, angel. Besides, I don’t know why you’re indulging him so much. You and I know both know God is real.”

“Yes, but the humans must believe in Him on their own. We can’t just go around evangelizing them like those ridiculous missionaries!”

Crowley snorted and Kenshin figured he probably rolled his eyes under his dark glasses. They both turned to him again, and, on instinct, he made himself smaller, hand on his katana. Aziraphale’s expression grew unbearably sad again.

“Look at the poor dear, Crowley,” he said, waving a hand at Kenshin. “You’ve frightened him.”

“I’m not frightened!” Kenshin cried, but his voice cracked in the middle of the sentence. He blushed and looked down at the grass. Crowley snorted.

“Sure, brat,” he said. He paused for a moment, and there was silence on the hill, before he spoke again, this time more gently. “Look at me, boy.”

Kenshin slowly raised his head, surprised to find the man looking at him with a soft expression. He sighed and ran his hand over his face. 

“Do you know what you’re doing in this Revolution?” he asked, sounding tired.

Kenshin nodded slowly.

“Helping.”

“Killing,” both men said at the same time. The white-blonde man sighed and looked up at the moon again. “It’s not so much the act of killing that hurts, Kenshin, as the guilt it leaves on your heart, isn’t it?” 

Kenshin blinked, taken aback. How did these men know so much?

“The people you kill are often worse than you and are on the wrong side of history,” the other man added with a shrug, “but it still hurts doesn’t it?” 

Kenshin didn’t move, but he felt tears building in his eyes, hot and burning. He could smell and taste the blood everywhere, always on his hands and clothes and hair, sticky and matting, metallic and bitter. Before he knew it, the tears were rolling down his cheeks.

“I-I don’t want to kill all those people,” he stammered. “I want to stop, but I promised that I would help until we won or I died. But,” he choked on a watery sob and dropped his katana, hugging his knees, “I just want it to be over.”

He didn’t need to look up to know that both men were looking at him with sadness and pity in their eyes, and he didn’t need it. So, he kept his eyes firmly on the grass, watching his fat tears water the green blades. He jolted to his feet when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Kenshin-san,” Aziraphale said, and there was no pity in his voice, only pain and sadness and empathy, as if he knew exactly what he felt. “You can stop soon. It’s all right. You’ll be fine, I promise.”

Behind him, Crowley was gazing at the moon, face empty and slack, eyes shining with something like agony. Aziraphale turned to him, his own expression morphing into one of compassion. 

“Oh, my dear—” he began, but Crowley came back to himself suddenly, slick smile returning to his face so quickly Kenshin nearly forgot what he had seen.

“I hung the stars,” he said, voice hushed. “I enjoy looking at them. The angel is a guardian, he protects those who are suffering, those who are afraid. He watches them. Stars and humans,” Crowley murmured. “The things we were tasked to watch.”

Aziraphale was frowning deeply, concern shining from his blue eyes, but he turned back to Kenshin when the boy fell to his knees, katana discarded, hands clasped in front of him. His eyes were suddenly wide, his face shining with awe.

“Tenshi-sama. . .” he murmured, and Aziraphale could see him putting the pieces together. “Angel. . . guardian. . .” He nearly crumpled over as everything fell into place. “Are you an angel?”

Aziraphale grinned.

“Yes, dear boy, I am.”

Kenshin prostrated himself, trembling, and dared to look over at the other being.

“And you’re an angel—?”

“Once upon a time,” he murmured. His gaze remained transfixed on the stars, sad and longing.

Kenshin’s eyes flicked back to the first man’s feet, perfectly white and unblemished under the nagabakama. He shook and hid his face.

“Angels,” he whispered, clenching his eyes shut. “My mother often told me stories of angels when I was young. Messengers of God, bringers of good news to Mary and Joseph and the shepherds.”

“Ah, so you were raised a Christian,” Aziraphale said. “It explains why you’re so keen to punish yourself.” He reached down and helped Kenshin to his feet, sheathing the boy’s discarded katana with ease. He handed it back to Kenshin, who slipped it into his obi. Aziraphale smiled and patted the boy’s arm.

“Calm down, child, there’s nothing to be afraid of or be in awe of or anything of the sort,” he said with a quiet grin. “My friend and I are just here to visit Japan for a while.”

“Do you live in Heaven?”

“Goodness no!” Aziraphale cried, shaking his head vehemently. “We live in London. In England." 

Kenshin’s eyes widened.

“England?” he said. “You live there?” He made a face. “That’s farther away than Heaven.”

For the first time, Crowley looked away from the nighttime sky to join Aziraphale’s laughter.

“You know, I suppose you’re right,” he said with a snort. He strode up to the two, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Aziraphale. “We’ve lived all over the world, now that I think about it,” he said to his friend.

Aziraphale nodded.

“Hmm. China, India, Europe, America, Africa, here . . . oh but we haven’t lived in Antarctica yet!”

Crowley snorted.

“There’s nothing there but ice and penguins, angel,” he said. “Why would we live there?”

“I suppose you’re right. . .” Aziraphale said, but he was pouting unhappily, which reminded Kenshin vaguely of his dead baby brother. He shook his head; he hadn’t thought about Gingko in years and planned not to think about him again. 

A thought popped suddenly into his mind.

“Rurouni. . .” he murmured, and the two otherworldly beings frowned at him.

“What was that, dear?” Aziraphale said. “Can you repeat that?”

“Rurouni. You’re rurouni, aren’t you?”

“What—?”

“Wandering swordsmen,” Crowley translated for Aziraphale. He paused for a moment. “In a way, I guess we are,” he answered. “We have no swords, but we are wanderers. Never stayed in one place too long.”

Kenshin’s face lit up; it was an expression that suited him and Aziraphale hoped he would see more often.

“Do you think that I could repent for my sins by becoming a rurouni when all of this is over?” he asked eagerly. “Wandering the country to help others in place of everyone I killed?” 

Aziraphale looked sad.

“Dear boy—” he began, but Crowley cut him off.

“Sure, kid, whatever you want.”

Kenshin’s expression cleared and he fell to his knees again, hands clasped in prayer. He bowed a few times, babbling words of thanks, until Aziraphale helped him back to his feet, touched his forehead to help him forget what he had seen, and sent him on his way. 

As the red-head disappeared into the forest, Aziraphale turned to Crowley with a glower.

“Why would you tell him that he could repent like that?” he demanded. “You know it won’t work!”

“No,” Crowley said with a shrug, “but it’s a start.”

*********************************************************************

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone is soft in this story and I love it thank you. 
> 
> Kūkai is a famous Japanese Buddhist monk who founded Esoteric Shingon school of Buddhism. His followers/students (Aziraphale) refer to him as Odaishisama
> 
> Catholics (I'm not sure about every Christian sect) believe that other relgions are just as lovely and respectful as Christianity and anyone who lives their lives with kindness, generosity, and love will go to Heaven even if they don't believe in God. I think Aziraphale believes that too.


End file.
